


Double Blind

by maiNuoire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dancing, Happy Ending, M/M, Mention of meddling sisters and friends, Outrageously understanding ditched dates, Physical space defying car sex, Pining, blind dates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 18:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6621163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maiNuoire/pseuds/maiNuoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on blind dates with other men, a reunion leads to a new begining</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double Blind

**Author's Note:**

> This was for the prompt "It killed me to see you with him"/"Kiss me"
> 
> It was supposed to be ~1,000k, and got way the hell away from me. I'm a little uncertain about the very end, so please let me know what you think!
> 
> Thank you lucyjeanette and shealwaysreads for the prompts!

Derek hates blind dates with a passion. Dating in general is usually more trouble than it's worth, actually. Add in forced conversation with a stranger, and he'd rather be hung from the ceiling in a damp basement for days.

 

The guy Laura had set him up with was nice enough; he seemed smart, decent sense of humor, and he was definitely handsome. With dark, messy hair, light brown eyes, and a straight nose, strong jaw with just a hint of stubble framing full, pink lips, the man- Steve- is definitely Derek's type. But, Derek can't help but think that his hair is a few shades too light, and his eyes not quite deep enough, his mouth not wide enough, humor not quite sharp enough. His skin too tan and completely lacking in freckles or moles.

 

With a deep sigh, Derek tries to focus on what Steve is saying when he's distracted by a familiar laugh across the restaurant. He seeks the source of the sound with a frantic feeling in his chest. When his eyes settle on broad shoulders and dark hair, a little less out of control than he remembers, his heart rate kicks up uncomfortably and he must make a noise despite his attempt to swallow what he admits is probably a whine, because Steve's hand is on his where it sits on the table, clenching his napkin.

 

It's strangely intimate, and Derek stares at the other man's hands on his own for a moment while the other man's concerned “Is something wrong,” filters through his thrill of panic. His eyes dart from where he's practically  _ holding hands _ with this stranger, to where the familiar and often dreamed of man sits across the room. Of course, that's when Stiles glances up and meets Derek's eye. Derek grabs his hand away from Steve so quickly he knows it's rude, but he needs Stiles to understand he's not with this other man. Not really.

 

Derek can see the shock work it's way over Stiles’ features. His eyes going wide, his mobile mouth gaping slightly, his hands going still mid-gesture and dropping heavily. Derek finally notices that Stiles is, of course, also not alone. There’s a well built man with olive skin and black hair and a neatly groomed beard looking at Stiles much like Steve is looking at Derek. Steve reaches for Derek again, and it’s like a switch was flipped, because Derek sees Stiles’ entire demeanor shift; his eyes shudder, he turns his whole body as far away from Derek as is possible while remaining in his seat, and he leans toward his date, smiling and tilting his head flirtatiously. It makes Derek’s heart ache. 

 

Even though to Derek, it all looks obviously forced, Stiles’ date seems oblivious, and he eats up the attention with an admittedly stunning smile. With a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach, Derek shakes himself and turns back to his own date, a sincere but explanationless apology already falling from his lips. He tries to focus on being a good date, mostly so Laura will get off his case for a while, and because he isn’t an asshole. Not really.

 

But now that Derek has seen Stiles again, seen how his shoulders have somehow gotten broader, and his jaw has gotten sharper, been reminded of how pink his lips are, and the way he moves his hands (which has somehow gotten smoother with time and distance). Now that Derek has heard Stiles’ laugh again, gotten the faint scent of him in his lungs again, remembered how much he’d ached to feel his skin beneath his fingertips, he’s pretty sure no Steve or Bill or Sam will ever measure up. And if there’s one thing Derek Hale is good at, it’s recognizing when he is absolutely fucked.

 

*******

 

Of course, just as Stiles is starting to feel like he's ready to date, like he's actually over his insane, years long crush on Derek, like he's ready to try again after  _ another _ failed relationship, of course  _ that's _ when he sees Derek again. 

 

And of course he looks just as incredible as he always did; artfully trimmed beard and beautiful, thick eyebrows, those eyes that Stiles never quite managed to decide what color they were, the few years they'd been strangers sitting on his muscled shoulders like a fine suit. His lips, looking soft and the surprised moue when their gazes locked making him look vulnerable. 

 

And his fucking  _ date _ ! Jesus, he was like a cheap, if attractive, imitation of Stiles, and for a moment it had filled Stiles with a strange sort of hope, even if it did twist his insides up with bitterness and resignation-because obviously it was never a matter of Stiles not being Derek's type physically, just that _ Stiles _ wasn't good enough. But then, Stiles-light touched Derek's hand, and it turned Stiles’ stomach. He shouldn't be having any feelings about someone else's boyfriend.

 

After briefly chastising himself and purposefully avoiding trying to analyze the play of emotions on Derek's face, he makes a decision to give his own date, Alex, his full attention.

 

It doesn't work. Even as he smiles and laughs at Alex's jokes and uses his best flirting tricks, his awareness of Derek tickles at the edge of his senses. There's a prickly warmth and a heaviness tugging at his mind, an ache in his chest he refuses to acknowledge, and a longing underneath his fingertips. 

 

It's a familiar hurt, a familiar magnetic pull toward Derek, and Stiles knows that despite the fact that Alex is actually as funny and  _ hot  _ as Lydia had promised when she insisted he let her set him up, Alex isn't Derek. Just like Ryan and Tyler and Sarah weren't Derek. And Stiles is pretty much positive that he's never going to love anyone the way he has loves Derek Hale since he was seventeen.

 

Stiles takes a moment as he turns away from the sight of Derek and his boyfriend to acknowledge that he is absolutely fucked.

 

********

  
  


Dinner ends up being pleasant enough, even if Derek had to force himself to ignore the heated tingle of his skin and the buzzing in the back of his head; the constant reminders of Stiles’ presence that he had long since fallen out of practice at dealing with. He purposely doesn’t strain his ears for snippets of conversation from their table, and he tries not to close his eyes and whimper when he catches a peal of that laughter drifting across the restaurant.

 

When Stiles and his date leave, Derek pretends he doesn’t notice how the other man settles his palm easily at the small of Stiles’ back as they make their way to the door. He also pretends it doesn’t steal the taste from his meal and the color from the room and make him ache all over with regret.

 

He tries, and mostly succeeds, in maintaining conversation and a reasonable amount of eye contact. Steve is a really nice guy, and Derek feels badly that he can’t muster more interest in him. But, he smiles when it’s appropriate, and shares just enough stories that he’s reasonably certain that Steve won’t discuss tonight as a disaster on future dates with other, more emotionally available men.

 

Even though Derek is pretty sure that Steve is just as aware that there is not going to be a second date, he feels guilty enough about the way he acted when he’d seen Stiles, that he agrees when Steve suggests they go to a nearby club to dance. He thinks maybe a little time spent in a place that will push at his senses with the reek of alcohol and sweat and  _ desire _ , and the heavy feel of sex and desperation and dizzy intoxication, might help purge Stiles from his system. Maybe allowing himself to get overwhelmed with other people’s emotions will distract him from his own confused tangle of feelings.

 

Plus, maybe if he can tell his sister that there was a second act to his date, and that it was at a club, an environment she’d know was a literal nightmare for him, maybe then she’ll stay off his case for a little while.

 

Walking out of the restaurant, Derek’s fingers itch to rest against skin-warmed cotton over lithely muscled back, but the prospect of touching anyone but Stiles so intimately is abhorrent. Steve glances at him over his shoulder, a look that might be mild disappointment on his face, and Derek studiously ignores acknowledging he noticed by pasting a dopey, unaware smile on his lips and asking “Ready to dance?” 

 

He even almost manages to sound like he’s looking forward to it.

 

********

 

Stiles doesn’t even know how he managed to get through the rest of his date. Alex is a sweetheart of a guy and luckily a decent conversationalist, because even though Stiles is used to carrying most of the conversation, he isn’t totally sure he managed even to contribute a polite amount to what Alex was sharing. 

 

The itch of awareness, of Derek’s  _ presence, _ is like a constant whisper across the back of neck, and he finds himself more than once looking across the room to where the man himself is seated. Also more than once, he catches Derek surreptitiously stealing glances at him, and he just doesn’t know what to do with all the confused feelings that brings up. 

 

When the date winds down, Stiles is aware that he’s fidgeting like he did as a teenager, and that he barely tasted the small amount of his meal that he was able to eat before that  _ tingle _ that has always accompanied Derek’s proximity stole his appetite. And any interest he had in Alex.  _ Shit _ .

 

Alex is unaware of his struggle, or at least pretending to be, and Stiles appreciates it more than he can articulate. Alex suggests they go dancing, and Stiles feels guilty enough about his distractedness to agree. As they leave, Stiles resolutely refuses to let his eyes be drawn to Derek and his boyfriend. He’s marginally successful. Though in a moment of spectacular failure, he finds Derek looking right back at him, his gaze like a physical touch, warm and conflicted, aching. Stiles tries to communicate _something_ to Derek with his own expression, despite having no actual clue what he wanted to say.

That, is of course the moment when Alex settles his hand on Stiles’ lower back like it’s something they have always done, despite it being a first date. Stiles’ is caught off guard, and a wave of guilt flashes through him as he acknowledges that he would not be offended by the forwardness and the bald intimacy of the action if Derek wasn’t watching. If Derek wasn’t back on his radar. And Derek,  _ oh god _ , the look on his face when Alex put his hand on Stiles, shuttered and confused, hurt, longing; it makes Stiles ache. It makes him feel hot and cold all at once.

 

He hopes that he can lose himself in the rhythm of over synthesized basslines and too many sweaty, intoxicated bodies moving together. If he can do that,  _ be _ that, maybe he can drink and sweat and dance Derek’s memory out of his system.

 

********

 

The second Derek steps into the club, he knows agreeing to come was a mistake. The thrum of his blood through his veins and the whisper of a familiar scent and  _ presence _ over his skin alerts him that Stiles is there, well before he sees him. Now that he's had the scent in his lungs again, it's like a reflex to seek it out, he's not sure how he hasn't caught it at the restaurant.

 

When Derek does spot him, he is struck by such a wave of longing that he's sure the entire clientele must feel it. His feet are temporarily rooted to the floor and he can feel the way his jaw hangs slightly open, he's fully aware that he has lost track of Steve, but it seems unimportant in the face of the sight of Stiles dancing. He's not necessarily technically  _ good _ , but he moves with surprising grace, all sinuous rolls of his trim hips that make Derek's dick jump in the confines of his pants, and clearly practiced movements of his arms and upper body. He looks comfortable on the dance floor and with his body; it makes Derek smile to remember the boy Stiles was while he was growing into his limbs, all sprawling motion and uncoordinated gestures.

 

But Stiles now, he's a pleasure to watch. Derek can't tear his eyes away. Stiles’ hands drag down his own torso and Derek feels the caress ghost across his body. He shivers.

 

There's a moment then, when Derek is positive that Stiles sees him. A moment when his steps falter for a brief moment and his eyes search the club almost frantically. Derek tries not to hope that Stiles is seeking him out, that this buzz of awareness is something they share, but it's a lost cause and his heart is already beating a little too fast in his chest.

 

Just as their eyes meet, an arm around his shoulder tears his attention away. He's almost positive he sees Stiles shake himself as though forcibly clearing his head as he turns away. _Back to his_ _boyfriend_ , Derek reminds himself, doing his own head shake as his stomach flips uneasily at the thought. He wants to keep watching Stiles, to look for subtle hints about the man he's chosen, the man who gets to dance with him, but the arm, of course, belongs to Steve. _His_ date.

 

With a sigh, Derek turns to Steve, plastering on a smile and subtly shrugging his arm off. “Hey,” he says, overly bright and with enthusiasm he doesn't feel a fraction of, “I'm gonna get a drink, can I get you something?”

 

A strange, almost regretful look  passes over Steve's face, and he rubs the back of his neck absently. Steve ducks his head and looks up at Derek, “Actually, uh, I saw some friends, and I thought maybe- I mean, you're great, but you seem um, distracted? Like maybe you're not feeling-”

 

_ Oh, gods, he even rambles like Stiles _ , Derek thinks before interrupting as gently as he can. “Hey,” he starts, an understanding smile curling his lips, “I get it. I'm sorry if I've been a shitty date. You're a great guy, kind of perfectly my type, actually. I'm just not really looking right now. Please, go have a good time. I hope maybe we can try to be friends?” Derek laughs lightly, “I know that sounds like a line, but-”

 

“I'd like that, Derek,” Steve replies, chuckling quietly. He offers his hand to Derek, and they shake politely, exchanging soft grins. Steve leans in and places a quick kiss on Derek's cheek. “I hope that cutie you've been eyeing stops pretending he's not looking back.”

 

Derek sputters for a moment, a denial forming on the back of his tongue, but he can’t bring himself to lie. Not to this actually really great guy, or about his feelings for Stiles. “He’s,” Derek sighs, unable to really put a label on all the things Stiles has been to him.

 

Steve guesses “An ex?”

 

“An almost,” Derek corrects, and the truth of it resonates through him and steals his breath for a moment. Steve is looking at him with sincere sympathy on his face, and it startles Derek slightly, the compassion from this stranger who he hasn’t been the best companion to.

 

Steve squeezes Derek’s shoulder gently, the gesture another  _ almost but not quite right _ thing about the man, and says lightly “If it helps, he has been looking at you just as much. And he’s probably watching right now,” Derek resists the urge to seek Stiles out, just barely. “If I thought jealousy would be the way to go, I’d happily offer a kiss to get the ball rolling, but I have a feeling that wouldn’t be the right angle here,” Steve’s smile is still sincere and warm, but the idea of kissing him holds no appeal, even ignoring the way that it would definitely not help the situation with Stiles.

 

Derek gives his best effort at a grin, “That would be a terrible idea, but I do appreciate the offer, Steve. Thank you,” he says, meaning it with everything he has, because this is honestly the best bad blind  date he’s ever had.

 

“Anytime. Literally. If your almost doesn’t pan out, gimme a call, eh? I mean, do it anyway, we’ll grab a drink or something sometime, but…” Steve trails off with a smile and a raised brow. “Good luck, Derek. I hope you get your guy,” Steve kisses his cheek and makes his way into the mess of bodies.

 

Derek wades through the crowd to find the bar as the bass and the lights start to become a little overwhelming. The smooth surface of the bar, cool under his hands, helps to ground him a little. The air in the club is heavy and warm, thick with a thousand different smells and all overlaid with the heady scent of arousal and sweat, and still, Stiles’ unique cinnamon and clean air aroma is like a beacon. Derek takes a deep breath, lets it fill his lungs.

 

One drink. Ten more minutes to sneak draughts of that scent, and he’ll leave. Ten more minutes to surreptitiously watch Stiles dance, to witness his happiness. Ten minutes to talk himself either into or out of trying to approach him.

 

Ten minutes. Then a lifetime to recover. No problem.

 

****** 

 

Stiles was doing his best to get lost in the music, in the press of bodies on the dancefloor. In the very desirable man he was meant to be on a date with. But it was proving very difficult. And Stiles was less than pleased about it.

 

It had been  _ years _ since he’d seen Derek. Years. Years of convincing himself that his latest relationship failed because they had schedules that were too full, or they were better off as friends, and that it had  _ absolutely nothing _ to do with the fact that they weren’t Derek Hale. Years of convincing himself that he hadn’t missed his chance with Derek, because there was nothing there to begin with; nothing beyond his own confused feelings and an honestly pretty great friendship. 

 

Years of lying to himself.

 

And now, faced with the knowledge that Derek was back in town, was dating a man now, apparently; a man that looked suspiciously familiar, no less, well, Stiles was feeling confused all over again. 

 

Alex is smiling at him, and there’s an extra pair of hands on his hips as they roll and sway in time with the bassline. He drags his hands down his torso, leaning back slightly into the tall, faceless wall of muscle behind him and a tingle of recognition passes over his skin. His steps stutter before he finds himself all but glued to the floor, his head moving around, surveying the club almost frantically, eyes darting back and forth, looking for Derek; the noise of the club around him fades to a distant hum, and Stiles is barely aware of the hands that still grip him, unaware of his dilemma. 

 

And then, his eyes settle on the achingly familiar face across the club. Derek seems to be similarly frozen in place, and he’s looking back at Stiles with  _ something  _ on his face that makes Stiles shiver. 

 

The reappearance of Derek’s boyfriend-  _ fuck _ , that hurts to acknowledge- and his arm so casually draped over Derek makes Stiles force his gaze away, makes him concentrate on resuming the easy rhythm he’d set with Alex and whoever it is behind him, despite the way his feet feel like they’re on backwards. If his eyes happen to drift back toward the bar and catch the way Derek and his boyfriend seem to be having a serious discussion, and the way that the other man kisses Derek’s cheek and walks away, well, it’s definitely not on purpose. And if his heart flutters a little at the way Derek doesn’t look heartbroken, and the way that he seems to seek Stiles out, their eyes connecting ever so briefly, well, he can’t really be held accountable for that.

 

The sight of Derek at the bar, alone and looking resigned hits Stiles like a punch. The feel of hands that aren’t Derek’s on his hips, skin that isn’t Derek’s under his fingertips where he is resting his hands on Alex’s shoulders, is suddenly too much for Stiles. He twists his body away from Mr. Handsy behind him and tries to extract himself from Alex in a way that doesn’t come off as rude. A strange look passes over Alex’s face, and Stiles is sure that he must understand, somehow, the situation that Stiles has found himself in.

 

He leans in so that he can speak into Alex’s ear without shouting, keeping his body angled so they are no longer pressed together. “Alex, I’m sorry, but I have to- There’s. An old friend, at the bar? I just noticed him, and I need to go say hello. I’ll try to make it back, but it’s been awhile since I last saw him, so there’s a lot of catching up, and-”

 

Alex leans away, a pleasant grin on his face; he leans back in so their positions are reversed and speaks into Stiles’ ear, his tone friendly, if a little tinged with disappointment, “The restaurant guy, right?”  Stiles pulls away abruptly, a confused look on his face, and Alex laughs. He’s beautiful when he laughs, and Stiles takes another moment to regret that there’s no spark between them. “Oh, Stiles,” he says, “I saw the way you two were pretending not to look at each other. If he’s here, you should go get him. Call me tomorrow, tell me how it goes, alright?”

 

Stiles’ face is doing complicated things, and Alex laughs again, turning Stiles around with gentle hands on his shoulders, grinning into his ear and saying “Go get ‘im, honey,” with a playful smack on his ass.

 

It’s enough to get Stiles moving again, one step at a time, feet still feeling like they’re on wrong. Just one step, then another. One more step, toward maybe a whole lifetime.

 

********

 

_ Damnit! _ Derek had turned away for a few seconds, that’s all. Less than a minute to talk to the bartender, and now he’s lost track of Stiles. He’s no longer where he was dancing a minute ago, no longer sandwiched between two ridiculously attractive men and  _ writhing _ in a way that had Derek half hard and suppressing a growl (so he supposes that is at least a positive thing). Only now, Derek can’t find him in the crowd, his scent is wound all around the club, but it isn’t enough for Derek to track him.

 

Derek slumps down, hunched over the bar and sagging in defeat. He’s about ready to leave, too close to doing something stupid like slamming his hands through the polished wood of the bar, when there is a tantalizing rush of  _ Stiles _ flooding his senses, and a tentative hand on his shoulder, squeezing. The familiar weight of it bringing a rush of memory with it that makes him gasp out loud.

 

Derek turns, careful not to dislodge Stiles’ hand, trying to ready a question, an appropriate greeting, anything. Anything that he might’ve been able to prepare falls away the moment he sees Stiles so close to him; so close he could touch him. Suddenly, he wants nothing more than to touch him, to touch him and hold him, and wrap himself up in Stiles. He exhales sharply and it almost manages to be the shape of Stiles’ name.

 

Stiles smiles at him, but it’s a small, hesitant thing, a question. His hand drops from Derek’s shoulder, but it trails down Derek’s arm ever so briefly and it leaves a trail of heat in it’s wake. “Hey, Der,” he says, and the rumble of his voice is somehow even deeper than it was the last time they saw each other, it settles over Derek like a physical thing, heavy and comforting.

 

Derek chokes out a small “Hey,” and he can feel the curve of his mouth giving away his feelings and he can’t make himself care. “Um. I saw you dancing, you looked- you look good, Stiles,” the understatement of it makes his face heat, and he’s sure that Stiles knows that just knowing Stiles is in the same space as him has had him mostly hard all night.

Stiles laughs, a short bark of amusement, “That's what you're gonna open with? Years apart, and that's your opening line?”

 

A slight flush colors Derek’s ears, and Stiles tries not to find it endearing. Derek rubs the back of his neck and tries not to stare at Stiles’ mouth, he is embarrassed when the next thing out of his mouth is “Where’s your boyfriend?” 

 

Stiles shoots him an unimpressed look and it is so familiar it makes Derek’s stomach clench. He stutters out a rushed “Sorry, sorry! That’s none of my- I mean, it doesn’t-” 

 

Stiles takes pity on him, waving a hand vaguely and interrupting with an annoyed sounding “He’s not my boyfriend, it was our first date,” and Derek almost chokes on the relief. 

 

“Oh thank god,” rushes out of him before he can stop it and Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the honesty in Derek’s expression. “I mean, I- No. I meant it exactly like I said it. It  _ killed me _ to see you with him, Stiles. I didn’t even know you were still living around here, and Laura’s been on my case about dating, and she set me up with  _ Steve _ , and-”

 

“Was Steve the guy who looked enough like me for it to be a little creepy?”

 

The interjection brings Derek up short, and it’s enough to make some things click into place in his mind. “Yeah. Uh, Laura set us up, and I’m thinking it was probably 100 percent intentional on her part.”

 

“I saw her, Laura, at the grocery store a few weeks ago,” Stiles says with forced nonchalance, and before Derek can process what that means Stiles is suddenly ever so slightly closer to him, and his breathing is suddenly shallow. “Derek, is there a reason that Laura would set you up with a Stilinski knock off?” Stiles is practically purring into Derek’s ear, and all Derek can do is nod lamely, tongue darting out nervously to wet his lips. Stiles tracks the motion and lets out a soft whimper that washes over Derek like a breeze.

 

Stiles’ hand is resting on Derek’s chest, his fingers just barely curling over his shoulder, and it practically burns through the thin cotton of his shirt. “Hey, Der. It um. I hated seeing you with that guy, too. Like, really, really hated it. And I’m really glad he’s not your boyfriend.”

 

There is no other sound in the entire club outside of their shared breathing. The music, the chatter, the clink of glasses behind the bar, it all falls away.

 

Derek takes a steadying breath and gathers his nerves, hard to do with the heat of Stiles’ body and the weight of his hand, on the exhale, he breathes out “Stiles,” and it sounds exactly as reverent as it feels on his lips. Stiles hums in response, his eyes searching Derek’s earnestly. “Kiss me,” Derek manages to gasp out before there are soft lips pressed against his, and his whole world shrinks down to the single point of contact, his senses flooded with  _ Stiles _ . 

 

The kiss is brief, a few shared breaths, a push and drag and glide, and Stiles’ fingers tracing along his cheek, his own hands just barely resting on Stiles’ hips. Derek gets a fleeting taste of Stiles’ tongue as it darts along the seam of his mouth, and then Stiles is pulling away, Derek chases after his lips and Stiles’ huff of amusement ghosts over his lips. Stiles traces Derek’s bottom lip with his thumb, and Derek realizes his eyes are still closed. When he opens them, it’s to see the  _ softest  _ look he’s ever seen looking back at him. Stiles’ face is still close to his, and his amber eyes are practically burning where they are locked onto Derek’s gaze.

 

“Is this real,” Stiles says quietly, knowing Derek will hear him even over the din of the club, which is still just a buzzing on the periphery of either of their awareness. In answer, Derek pulls Stiles’ body flush against his, spreading his fingers wide so they span across Stiles’ lower back and drags his nose along Stiles’ cheekbone. Stiles’ hand, the one not anchored at Derek’s chin comes up to rest on Derek’s hip, his thumb hooking into a belt loop and tugging slightly. 

 

Derek’s beard is surprisingly soft where it rasps against Stiles’ skin, and the kiss he places on Stiles’ lip is the sweetest, most gentle thing. “Come home with me,” Derek breathes into the space between them. “I want- I just want to hold you. I want to hear about what you’ve been doing these last few years, I want-”

 

“Yes,” Stiles says against Derek’s mouth. “Yes, Derek. But if we’re spending the night together, I would really like it if we spent some of it naked,” Stiles punctuates his statement by taking Derek’s lower lip between his teeth and dragging them slowly away, it leaves the flesh red and puffy, glistening in the low light and it makes Stiles moan, dropping his head onto Derek’s shoulder. “Fuck, Der. I’ve wanted you for so long, I don’t want to mess this up, or rush you, but  _ gods _ , I just want to feel you-”

 

“Yes. Yes, all of… everything, Stiles. I want everything, please,” Derek manages to get out on a breath, and he feels the curve of Stiles’ smile against his jaw.

 

“Let’s get out of here then,” Stiles pushes the words into Derek’s mouth, and Derek swallows them eagerly. When they part this time, it’s with matching smiles and bright, heavy lidded eyes. They make their way to the door with clasped hands, oblivious to the movements and attention of the crowd around them.

 

Outside, the night air is cool and Stiles shivers slightly, grinning when it prompts Derek to wrap an arm around him and draw him in close. As they walk through the parking lot, Stiles stumbles slightly as they approach Derek’s car. “Holy shit, you still have the Camero!”

 

Derek’s laugh is bright and clearly startled out of him, and Stiles finds it incredibly gratifying. “Yeah, I did. You getting in?”

 

“I have wanted to do naughty things to you in this car since I was seventeen years old,” Stiles’ voice is low and thick and completely, breathtakingly honest.

 

Derek clears his throat as he opens the passenger door, “I’m uh, not entirely certain the car is big enough. For um, anything adventurous, Stiles.”

 

Stiles pivots to face Derek, so his body is almost flush against Derek’s front, his back facing the car, he smirks as he slides into the seat as slowly as possible, dragging his hands down Derek’s arms and making as much contact with his body as possible. “Oh, I don’t know, Der,” he settles his hands on Derek’s waistband breifly, fingers tucked into the space between fabric and skin, “I think there’s plenty of room for me to suck you off in here,” he swings into the seat and stretches his legs out purposefully. Stiles looks up at Derek, one eyebrow raised suggestively, “Lots of legroom.”

 

Derek is frozen for the second time that night, his brain having blanked at the prolonged, dragging contact with Stiles’ body, the sight of him splayed across the passenger seat of his car, the dirty things he was saying all conspiring to keep Derek glued to the pavement. “Derek,” Stiles purrs, unsubtly adjusting his tantalizing erection and staring at Derek, his eyes gone molten, the color like wet autumn leaves, rich and inviting. “Get in the car,” comes out on a near growl, punctuated by a lascivious roll of his hips that thrusts his dick into the cradle of his hand and drags a moan from his parted lips, “Now.”

 

The undercurrent of desire spurs Derek into action and he carefully shuts Stiles’ door to rush around to the driver’s side, pausing before he opens the door to take a fortifying breath and adjust his own hard length into a more comfortable position. When he settles into his seat, he has just enough time to notice that is considerably farther from the steering wheel than he usually sits, he’s practically in the back seat, really. Before he can make sense of it, Stiles is pressing their mouths together and crawling into his lap; not easy in the relatively small interior of his sports car, but then he has the heated weight of Stiles against him, their bodies slotted together like they were made to, and the cramped quarters cease to exist, let alone matter.

 

Stiles’ fingers are threaded in his hair, absently scritching at his scalp in a way that leaves tingly trails in their wake. Their mouths are fitted together, lips dragging and catching and sliding, the perfect amount of wet easing the eager glide. Stiles’ tongue is stroking into Derek’s mouth with the perfect pace and pressure, tangling sweetly with Derek’s own, and they are passing little groans of pleasure back and forth between them.

 

Derek’s arms are wrapped around Stiles, one hand exploring the expanse of his back with slow, sweeping motions, the other is spread wide over his hip, wrapping around to cup the swell of his ass, using the point of contact to encourage the torturous roll and bounce of Stiles’ hips that is creating the most delicious  _ friction _ .

 

The kiss breaks so they can both catch their breath, Stiles pulls back just enough that they can look at one another, sharing the small space between them to pant lightly and stare in wonderment. Derek moves one hand to cup Stiles’ face, and Stiles nuzzles into the touch, eyelids fluttering.

 

Stiles’ hips are still dancing, still dragging their cotton trapped erections together, his hands anchored in Derek's hair and on his neck. “Can I- it's still true you can't get sick, right? Because I would really like to-” a high whine wheezes out of Stiles’ throat, and he mutters a long, drawn out “ _ Ffuuuck _ ,” as his little rise-fall-thrust rhythm momentarily falters and intensifies. 

 

Derek interrupts with a groaned curse of his own, and stutters out “Whatever you want, I'm good. Please, whatever you-” it's partly desperation, partly understanding Stiles’ current difficulty finding words, and it's cut off by a sloppy, filthy kiss. All devouring lips and dragging teeth, and clumsy, delicious tongue as Stiles slithers gracefully off of Derek's lap. 

 

And now Derek understands the readjusted seat, because Stiles folds himself nearly into the footwell and starts to rub and gently squeeze the outline of Derek’s cock, Derek’s hips push helplessly into the contact and he whimpers out Stiles’ name. Stiles grins up at him, it’s just shy of predatory, and his lips are swollen and pink in the hazy streetlamp light that leaks through the window.

 

And then Derek can’t see anything, because the shock of Stiles’ mouth, his hot breath, closing over Derek’s cloth covered cock, forces Derek’s eyes to shut and a sharp gust of breath from between his lips.  Stiles slides his mouth excruciatingly slowly up Derek’s length, the heat of his exhalations sending fire zipping through his veins, and the sensation of Stiles’ long, clever fingers teasing along the skin above his waistband and hooking around the button makes him shiver.

 

When Stiles slips the button free and slides the zipper down, the click of each tooth is audible, only their labored breathing breaking the silence otherwise. Then Stiles is freeing Derek’s cock, and they both gasp at the contact; Stiles’ warm fingers wrap loosely around Derek’s hot length, and he gives an experimental pump, one long, slow up and down glide. His thumb flicks over the head, through the precome gathered there and spreading it around. Derek feels himself trembling, and Stiles withdraws his hand, eyes focused on Derek’s, and suck his thumb into his mouth, moaning as Derek’s taste blooms on his tongue. Derek echoes the sound, and then Stiles is sinking his mouth down over his cock, and Derek is only able to whimper a stream of  _ “Fuck yes please, Stiles. Yes ye- oh shit…” _ because the incredible wet heat and Stiles’ agile tongue fluttering and lapping along his shaft, pressing against his frenulum as Stiles sucks and bobs his head in a steady rhythm. Stiles makes a pleased humming sound, and it vibrates through Derek’s entire body, he settles a hand on the back of Stiles’ head, scritching his fingers through his hair, his other hand caresses Stiles’ cheek, his thumb tracing the bulge of his cock in Stiles’ mouth.

 

Stiles can’t believe that he’s here, that he is in Derek Hale’s Camaro, on his knees and learning how Derek’s cock tastes and feels; the weight of it on his tongue and the slick saltiness of his precome, and the way it bumps at the back of his throat is a literal dream come true, and Stiles can’t help but hum and moan happily around Derek’s dick. The feel of Derek’s hands on him, in his hair, tracing lightly along his cheek and tapping at the swell of his cheek is probably the single most erotic thing Stiles has ever even  _ imagined _ .  

 

When Derek speaks, his voice is a deep, breathy rumble, and he practically begs “Stiles, please.  _ Mmmpf _ . Please, come here.” He tugs lightly on Stiles’ hair, and as he pulls off with an obscene  _ pop, _ he groans salaciously and pushes into Derek’s hand, arching his neck to encourage Derek to pull a little harder. He obliges and is gratified when Stiles’ pupils widen and he practically sobs around a drawn out “ _ Yes _ ” before climbing back into Derek’s lap. They’re kissing before he’s even settled, Derek can taste a trace of his own flavor on Stiles’ tongue,  and it’s such a perfect glide and drag and press, like it’s something they’ve always done, that it makes Derek ache.

 

Stiles bows his body, just enough that Derek can get at the closure of his pants, which he does eagerly and with swift and sure fingers, pulling Stiles’ cock out carefully, pushing a broken moan into Stiles’ mouth. Derek uses his other hand to pull Stiles closer, and as their groins meet, Derek rolls his hips into Stiles and the other man resumes the exquisite bounce and roll that had them both on edge minutes before.

 

Derek drags his hand from the small of Stiles’ back to wrap around their achingly hard erections, and Stiles wraps his own hand around from the other side, his fingers comparatively cool against their overheated flesh. Each has one hand resting on the other’s neck and their lips are fused, moving together in a wet catch and slide, tongues sweeping into each other mouths and teasing along one another’s lips. They move their hands together, pressing their erections together in a way that is pleasant all on its own, and the added friction of the gentle but increasingly intense pumping has them both close to orgasm in a frustratingly short time.

 

Derek’s thumb flicks across the knob of Stiles’ head, smearing the precome that he’s leaking generously over both of them, and Stiles slides his hand so his palm covers both of them and rolls it there, gathering slick that he uses to ease the slide of his hand over their joined lengths. The  _ push pull drag slide _ of their hands has them both panting heavily, no longer actively kissing, just sharing breath and gazing at one another; Stiles slots their lips together, catching Derek’s lower lip between his and sucking gently, using his teeth to nibble and pull at the soft flesh. Derek’s groan vibrates along Stiles’ lip and makes him tingle, makes a small, satisfied sound pour out of him. 

 

Their hips and hands are moving in desperation now, and their mouths are moving together in a parody of a kiss. A chorus of “ _ Yes, please, fuck. Oh, god, yespleaseyes, _ ” and “ _ So close, oh I want to see you come. Please fuck please _ ” fills the cabin of the car, and neither could tell you who said what. Derek kisses along Stiles jaw, noses along the defined curve of it, licks at Stiles’ ear and bites the soft pad of his lobe, luxuriating in the whimpering cries it pulls from him. Derek reaches Stiles’ neck, pulling away the shirt and revealing the smooth, pale skin. 

 

And then he’s the one making low, rumbling ecstatic sounds. The desire to bite and mark, to suck dark purple marks into Stiles’ flesh, to leave the shape of his teeth on the curve of Stiles’ neck and shoulder, is almost overpowering, and he sets his teeth where they join and just rests there, his lips dragging and tongue laving at the passion warmed skin. When Stiles whispers “Do it. Please,” Derek growls and he has to fight the lengthening of his teeth. Stiles again arches his neck and pushes lightly at Derek’s head, repeating “Please, Der. I’ve always been yours,” Derek’s hips stutter, and as he sinks his teeth into Stiles’ neck, sucking a bruise into the sensitive flesh, they both groan, and the sound is filthy and beautiful.

 

Stiles’ hands tighten where they grip Derek’s head and their leaking cocks, Derek’s speeds up around them and the dance of their tightly pressed together hips, leaving just enough room for their hands to maneuver, reaches a frantic, uncoordinated peak, and they both come with a shout of the others name, spilling hot and messy over their hands and painting white, sticky lines over their shirts. 

 

Derek leans back to look at Stiles, his wide blown, heavy lidded eyes, kiss swollen lips and dazed, satisfied grin are the sexiest thing he’s ever seen, and as they fall together, curling into each other effortlessly, he feels something settle into place in his chest.

 

Stiles is still dazed, he feels heavy and sated in a way that surpasses any other pleasure he’s ever felt. Derek is rumpled and looks just as fuzzy and pleased as Stiles feels, and the soft, awed upward curve of his mouth is the most beautiful thing Stiles has ever seen, it sends a warm, fulfilled feeling fluttering in his belly and settling in his chest.

 

“Stiles,” Derek sounds thoroughly wrecked and Stiles’ dick makes a valiant effort to harden again.

 

He replies with an inquisitive “Hmm,” tracing lazy patterns against Derek’s shoulder, and Derek chuckles lightly.

 

He sounds cautiously hopeful when he continues quietly, “Did you mean it?”

 

Stiles scrambles tiredly for the space of a breath to determine what Derek could be asking him before it clicks. “Completely,” Stiles reluctantly lifts his head so he can look Derek in the eye when he continues sincerely, “I have been yours since I was seventeen, even though it was another year or so until I admitted it to myself. I’m yours, and I kind of love that you want to make it all werewolf official,” he finishes with a fond smirk, shuddering and biting his lip when Derek traces the outline of his bite with a featherlight drag of his thumb.

 

The look on Derek’s face is full of awe and almost worshipful, he opens his mouth to say something profound, something to convey to Stiles everything he’s feeling, but what comes out instead is “Kiss me.”

 

Stiles eagerly complies, brushing his smile against Derek’s mouth, happily letting his lips be captured in a sweet, sensuous kiss. He can feel Derek’s smile take shape and it makes his own grow wider until their just pressing their smiles together, easily falling into gentle laughter. Stiles settles his head on Derek’s shoulder, and a happy sigh fills the space between them.

 

“Come home with me tonight,” Derek says softly into the crown of Stiles’ head.

 

“You’re going to have a hard time getting rid of me if we do that.”

 

Derek exhales a happy sigh that sounds like “Good,” and Stiles hums and settles his hand on Derek’s hip. He jerks it away quickly, a grimace on his face and quickly cooling come on his palm.

 

“Plus, we could use a shower,” Stiles groans out.

 

Derek’s laughter is a bright, full sound and it fills the small space. Stiles takes a moment to appreciate it before planting a quick kiss to the corner of Derek’s mouth and reluctantly and carefully returning to the passenger seat.

 

Derek adjusts the seat and glances at Stiles, “I guess I should thank Laura for setting me up, huh?”

 

A giggle bursts from Stiles’ chest, and he manages a nod of agreement, “Yeah, this was the best blind date ever.”

**Author's Note:**

> Join me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/poetry-protest-pornography) for more Sterek, and other various things. Like feminism! And sexy men kissing!


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